


do not stand at my grave and cry (i am not there, i did not die)

by meliore



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes-centric, Gen, Not Beta Read, Other: See Story Notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-24 00:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15618414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meliore/pseuds/meliore
Summary: Steve had said that if he ever needed a place to stay, his own would be open to him.





	do not stand at my grave and cry (i am not there, i did not die)

**Author's Note:**

> hello to anyone who might be reading this!
> 
> i have (and had, because i erased some of my documents out of existence) another MCU stories, but this is one i felt kinda secure that it was not absolute shit so. there i am. hello!
> 
> this might be out of character, but i wasn't sure about it being or not so i didn't included it on the tags. BUT i'd like to be honest of the possibility in case it is.
> 
> this story comes from a prompt on writing-prompt-s about a bridge that can get you to one moment on your past that was important and it will give you the opportunity of making a different choice. i can't find it anymore though.
> 
> that stuff aside, the relationship between bucky and steve is not the center of this. Bucky is. and steve's more mentioned than he is a character (which is why he's not included as a character).
> 
> you might want to read the end notes so you know what the ending is about.

Steve had said that if he ever needed a place to stay, his own would be open to him.

[“Do you really have to go?” was the million dollar question, soon followed by “We—if not my team, I could help you.”

He let himself take a minute to think about the man in front of him. The eyes, hair and skin were what kept him sure that this man was the boy he grew up with.

But he needed to go. Maybe not for his physical safety, but his mind...

The time to think was necessary. Like a type of maintenance.

He whispered the word ‘yes’ and thought about when they were young, in all senses of the word, when their youth hadn’t been only appearance.

He couldn’t separate his memories, so he thought about all of it—holding an asthmatic boy from behind and keeping him awake, wearing his father's black suit and comforting his friend and feeling uneasy because there was hope but there was always the possibility too, punching (a bully? At some point he stopped thinking about who Stevie had gave himself to as a punching bag) someone. And then seeing a war with his own eyes. And then needles and a blue liquid. And then seeing the man’s face while he fell of a train—and he looked to the blue eyes, forcing himself to see a thin boy that would never wear something like that (and he could hear the ghost’s voice inside of his head).

“Most likely,” came out of his mouth, “I will not come back. Goodbye.”

He wishes he had told the man _please don’t come looking for me, I’ll find you if I want to see you again_ but he told himself that somehow, this message was in his own tone.

The logical decision would be to just say ‘yes’ and start running. But he thought that maybe they wouldn’t see each other again, and then, he decided to give the man a goodbye just in case something happened]

The chances he’d go back to Steve were not few. HYDRA could find him again and he could decide that maybe this Steve is not his own, is not that stubborn thin boy that could fit a lot of anger, but brainwashing would not be a reality again. But Bucky pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind, to the same place where that _thing_ was. His life, the way it had been for some time, could be worse.

Maybe he’s not in his right mind—okay, he’s not in his right mind at all—or maybe he got used to pain never really going away, but he was feeling…

Happy. In a way. Life was simple, the condition of life on the village was not horrible too. If he ignores anything related to his mind, the only difficult thing that he could think of was getting used to life without a left arm. And next to anything, it even had been _easy_.

The population was polite, with some mannerisms that were part of their own culture. [ _They have kni_ _v_ _es but no guns_ , the thing gives the information to him] After spending time in places like New York, it felt a little bit strange to be here, but The Asset adapted easily.

But. _But._

He thought of the thing as a separate personality and a type of mindset he would come back to at times. Sometimes because he considered something a serious threat, sometimes if something made his heart beat too fast and sometimes it’d just happen. If it would ever disappear after therapy or not, he didn’t knew.

More than once he called it a thing, too. Sometimes—sometimes it was too much, flashes of his past, good and bad and complicated and innocent people, life disappearing from someone’s eyes. He lashed out at it those times. He felt a little guilty, but he was lashing out at himself, so it didn’t matter, right?

Maybe it was an asset. It certainly served as one. But him, James—the thing being an alternative personality or a mindset or whatever—was not an asset.

He was a murderer. He wasn’t a good man. But he was not an asset.

He distracted himself from his thoughts, looking to the floor of the house’s living room, at his right hand and at the movements he did. Waiting [ _for a prey_ ] like he’s [ _hunting_ _for_ _food_ ] a normal man who’s going to talk to one of his neighbors.

“Sebastian?” a voice comes, together with three knocks at the door. He gets up, walks to the door and opens it like he has practiced before. The person who knocked is an old man.

He never asked him or anyone else about their names or ages or other information, so he’s left to wonder if this man is as old as he is or if he’s younger—or even older. How unexpected would that even be?

“The bridge,” he says, softly, which is a nice sound because his accent is thick.

He nods, and both of them walk silently to where the village’s population is, everyone looking to the wooden bridge. Below the bridge, a river flows, calmly.

He has no idea why, but people think that the bridge is magic. Since he’s not tired, busy or worried that there is a HYDRA agent around, he lets himself go with the flow of the population culture. It’s not as calm as the river, but it’s a good energy, he supposes.

The leader—is he a leader?—of the village orders them to be silent. Half of the attention is focused on the river and how it flows and on the bridge, the other half being directed to the leader.

“The time has came,” he says, in a different language. Winter is the one who translates it to him. “this bridge that all of you see, it appears once every century. Only one may step on it,” his black eyes fall on the place where him—James, he reminds himself—is.

He stares back. The village’s leader smiles and for a second, James wonders if there’s something about to happen, if this man works for HYDRA or…

“Me and the spirits feel an energy around you,” he tells him. Looking around, he notices that this must’ve been discussed between the people, because none of them looks exactly surprised. “you have fought, and you’re in deep suffering. You’ll cross the bridge.”

There, some people gasp. James thinks that it must feel good to have something like this, an important thing to believe in, to really _believe_ in. He’s willing to act like this is a big change for him after he crosses the bridge and comes back. It seems hurtful for the population to not engage in their beliefs. At least for him.

He steps closer and before stepping on the bridge itself, he looks to the leader. When he receives a nod, he gets the confirmation he waited for.

He walks. Slowly, he reaches the end. He turns—

—It’s night. There’s one or two street lights illuminating the road. There’s a lot of leaves on the ground and he holds a gun.

_Fuck._ He hopes that outside of this memory, everyone thinks that he just zoned out or some shit.

But nothing happens.

He blinks. It feels…

Real.

James shakes his head. He comes closer to the car—there’s a car!—and he decides that this is either a memory or a nightmare he’s having after something made him faint. Or whatever happened that led him from one moment to another.

The person inside the car—the _people_ —are Maria and Howard Stark. Both of them alive, both of them very hurt, though.

He stands there.

Howard opens his mouth and James can’t really hear a thing, but he knows what he’s saying. _Please, my wife_ , and James waits for his own hands to reach Maria’s neck.

Except.

Except they don’t.

He blinks and looks to his hands. The hell’s happening?

Howard repeats his words.

This is a nightmare, one where he can control his movements. Or maybe it’s a hallucination that feels real. Or, maybe, it’s a memory and his brain likes to torture him and the thing too.

So. Based on that, on the lack of real danger, he gets Maria out of the car. She’s very alive, bleeding, but alive. There’s no more hope to Howard. He feels guilty, like he always does, because no one deserves to die like this.

James feels like he’s floating. Everything around him turns black, and then white, and then it doesn’t exist anymore.

He feels calm wrap him in a warm hug.

There is no asset. No HYDRA. No Steve, no him.

There _is_. It just is. This particular universe erases itself, like it never did exist in the first place.

Steve. The asset. His mind. Life. This very night.

He’s finally free.

**Author's Note:**

> while the ending could be interpreted as major character death, when writing i didn't thought about it as a death, more like going to an alternative dimension. or both of those possibilities, or even none of them? it's up to you to decide if it was a death or a trip to an alternative dimension or if it was just a dream
> 
> the title comes from "do not stand at my grave and weep", a poem made by mary elizabeth frye second what poemhunter dot com tells me -- i think it's kinda awesome tbh


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